by Rachel Cross
Even back in his music days, Nate had never exactly been what you’d call “a people person.” Hell, he’d made a career of hiding out: first behind the fortress of his guitar with a series of rock bands, then as a producer in the sound studio. But there was no hiding from the conflict with band mates, then clients, sound engineers, and record companies—and trying to balance the artists’ demands and the pressure from the record company overloaded his already unstable psyche and pitched it into the morass. It had been an ugly, public descent.
His life had fallen into a comfortable rhythm with only the dogs and books for company. He wasn’t completely isolated, thanks to the CSA, though Nate didn’t have internet or cable, and he only kept the phone line for emergencies. His customers knew about his honor system: pick up box of produce and leave cash or a check. He might wave or say hello, but he didn’t go out of his way to engage anyone. And he didn’t even listen to music anymore. He couldn’t play it, certainly couldn’t produce it—he’d traded in those gifts for a shot at normalcy.
In the past music had consumed him, leaving little time for anything else. Well… almost anything else. His libido had raged nearly as out of control as his temper back then. But relationships with women didn’t last. He had no ability or interest in managing them, and when things got really bad, he was incapable of it.
He hadn’t sought out companionship in his small farming community either. Relationships were fraught with drama, and drama was something he’d had enough of to last a lifetime. After so many years of being out of control, he valued the stability, emotional and otherwise, he enjoyed on the farm—and he’d never had any luck mixing business with pleasure. He headed into the house to phone the vet, Yancy. The dogs needed a house call.
• • •
Nate came back into the barn and entered the stall where Ava sat, back against the wall, Ray’s head on her leg, her hand stroking Molly’s pink belly.
“Any more vomiting?”
“No. But Ray’s still panting pretty heavily,” she said, pressing her lips together pinning him with a look from those brilliant eyes that dared him to lie to her.
“Well, they’re going to be sick for a while. It’s a poison. Vet’s on his way.”
“Maybe I should go.” She shifted uncomfortably.
“Your car radiator’s busted.” He crouched down and laid a loving hand on Ray’s head and got a lick from the long pink tongue. The dogs had wormed their way into his affections in the four short years he’d had them. It would break his damn heart if Ray died—if either of them died.
• • •
Twenty minutes of worrying later, Ava saw a truck pull up next to the barn. It was obvious by his labored breaths that Ray had gotten worse. Nate had said nothing while they’d waited for the vet, just wore that same stark expression. Heartsick and nauseous, Ava clenched her hands into fists.
The vet walked in briskly and introduced himself as Dr. Yancy. He asked how much poison the dogs had consumed as he began his exam. “Ray had more than Miss Molly,” Ava said, her voice hoarse. “Molly only licked my boot.”
“Nate, I don’t have to tell you that even a little of that stuff can be fatal,” he said, gently. Nate nodded, Ray’s panting, drooling muzzle in his lap. “But he’s a big, tough guy and I think he’ll pull through. Keep an eye on him though. If it’s bad, his kidneys will shut down, but before that happens—”
“If it’s going that direction, put him down,” he interrupted flatly.
Ava watched his expression—it didn’t change, but the tortured look in his eyes seized up her heart.
The vet dosed them with an IV of grain alcohol, followed by some fluids and sat back on his heels. He went over what they should look for, then gathered his equipment and stood. “If it gets bad—if Ray’s struggling, or won’t stop vomiting, come get me. I can always take them with me.”
“No. I’ll keep them here and keep a close eye.” Nate stood, carefully laying the dog’s head on the floor of the barn and following the vet out.
Ava crouched down, gently stroking Ray’s flank, and her eyes filled. How could she have just stood there, watching while the dog drank poison? She’d never forgive herself if anything happened to Ray. Hell, she never should have come out here. Damn Asher Lowe. His buddy was fine, or at least he had been until she came along. And now she was stuck with a broken-down car and no shoes with some taciturn farmer who probably thought she was an idiot and a half.
The weight of the day’s frustrations, the sleepless nights and frantic days leading up to last Thursday’s fundraising extravaganza, it all suddenly hit her in a wave, her body shuddering with a futile effort to hold back the tears. Ava covered her mouth with her hand, muffling the sobs that suddenly escaped. A minute later, Ava heard footsteps on the crisp hay and quickly straightened up, trying to pull herself together. But when she looked up the heartbreak on Nate’s face made her tears start anew. He grimaced and reached out, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her to him.
She gasped out an apology and he shushed her. As he held her trembling body against his chest, his hand stroked through her hair, gently lifting out bits of hay and grass. This was crazy. It was his dog who was sick and somehow he’d ended up comforting her.
She pulled back finally and wiped at her eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” he said and she could see that he meant it. Nate bent and picked up the hundred-pound dog while Molly hovered near his feet. “Let’s go into the house. They’ll be more comfortable and so will we.”
Chapter Three
From the outside the elegant white frame house looked like a B&B. Inside, there were ladders and sawhorses strewn about, clear signs of a restoration. The living room looked like it’d been completed though—a large brown suede sectional, three bookcases and what looked to be paintings of the area hanging on the Tiffany blue walls.
“It’s a work in progress,” he said. “Can I make you something to eat?” he offered, laying Ray on the dog bed near the couch. The little white terrier walked herself over to a cushion near the fireplace and lay down with a quiet sigh.
Squelching her embarrassment, Ava followed him into the kitchen. The room was a disaster—cabinets with no doors, speckled yellow linoleum floor and avocado green countertops—but it was well stocked. Clearly this was a man who made his own meals. Unlike her fridge, loaded with convenience foods and old takeout, his was full of vegetables and fruits and a variety of cheeses from a local creamery. “I’m sorry I don’t have anything thawed. Looks like breakfast for dinner, is that okay?”
“Great.”
She set the big farm table while he cooked.
“Sorry, I don’t have wine or beer to offer you. I don’t drink anymore.”
Ah. Maybe that was why Asher was worried. There were a lot of musicians with substance abuse issues in her experience. Then again, this guy couldn’t be a musician. He had no electronics. No television and no stereo. She had yet to see a computer, and according to her nearly dead phone, the man had no Wi-Fi connection.
Dinner was almost ready. She took another look at Ray, sacked out in his bed, and strolled over to the bookshelves. There were hundreds of books: classics, thrillers, horror and an entire wall of books on animals, agriculture and wetlands. She pulled out one of the books, Sloughs of California, flipped through it. Oh. It was pronounced slew and was fed by a stream on one end, and flowed into the Pacific at the other. She’d passed a few on her drive up Route 1. So that’s what that huge lake looking thing down the hill from the barn was. He was well read—that was for damn sure. She put the book back and continued searching for some clue as to how he knew Asher.
She went back into the kitchen for their glasses of water and set them on the table. He brought the food in and she sat, staring at it. Finally, she picked up the fork and took a bite.
It was the best veggie cheese omelet she’d ever had. “Good,” she managed.
He shrugged. “Fresh.”
She glanced over as Ray made another sound “I’m so sor—”
He stopped her with a raised hand. “If Ray’s determined to get something, he’ll get into it. This isn’t the first time he’s eaten something that made him sick. I don’t know if you could’ve dragged him away if you tried, so please, stop torturing yourself.”
She stopped pushing the food around her plate. “I don’t know how you can be so incredibly Zen about it,” she said, softly, “it’s obvious you love those dogs.”
He smiled at her. “Zen. That’s a funny way to describe me, given my history.”
She cocked her head “Oh? Why’s that?”
A tiny frown furrowed his brow. “Asher sent you here, yes?”
“Yeah.”
“So you know my story.”
She shook her head. “No. I’ve been trying to figure out how you know him. I can’t imagine he knows too many farmers.”
His expression hardened. “I haven’t always been a farmer. I know Asher because I produced a few Spade albums. I’m Nathaniel Robbins,” he said, carefully.
Shock widened her eyes and she dropped her fork. Nathaniel Robbins? As a legendary guitarist for half a dozen bands and record producer, the man had worked intensively with all the biggest artists behind the scenes and in the studio. He was responsible for the sound of a generation of music—her music. Then he’d had some major meltdown. She searched her memory banks. Was he the producer that had flipped out and been incarcerated for some kind of violent attack? Jesus. What had Asher sent her into? She gulped and before she could stop herself, Ava blurted, “Weren’t you in prison for assault?”
• • •
He pushed his plate away, sickened that his name provoked that expression of fear mingled with shock so evident on her face. For years, his reputation inspired curiosity, respect, even reverence among his peers. Since his breakdown, however, his name was viewed with fear, disgust, or worse—a kind of titillated fascination. “Not in jail. And not assault.” That was one urban myth that refused to die. “Unless you can commit assault on a sound studio—that I did. I was institutionalized—hospitalized, briefly.” He waved his fork.
“Should that reassure me?” Her back was stiff, shoulders pressed against the wood backing of the chair.
A bitter laugh escaped him. “Maybe not, but I’m harmless and sane—now at any rate.”
She sat back in her chair. “I’m sorry. But … but that’s good, right? I mean, weren’t you pretty out of control with the drugs and stuff—at least, that’s what I think I read.”
“I was self-medicating some issues. I’m sober now.” Even after five years it was uncomfortable to say the words to a stranger. It was hard to admit his brain chemistry was so severely fucked up that he needed daily doses of medication to keep the mania at bay. But he didn’t regret it, not for one minute. His life had been a horror show, without peace or hope. He’d spent weeks that he could barely remember in bed curled up in the fetal position. But he’d gotten his shit together, made a normal life for himself. Or at least, this was as close to normal as he was ever going to get.
“Asher didn’t tell you?”
She shook her head. “He gave me the name of your farm, that was it.”
“Good old Asher,” he said, affectionately.
She choked on her water. “He’s a manipulative son-of-a-bitch.”
Nate smiled and lifted his glass. “That too. So, what’s your story?”
“I own a small company that contracts with non-profits to do fundraising events in Los Angeles,” she waved her fork, “I live in Santa Monica.”
“What kind of events?”
“I do Asher’s fundraiser—”
“Ah, the Arthritis one? That’s huge.”
She nodded. “Yep. It’s one of our biggest but we have two dozen annual events.”
“And you like it?”
Do I?
“Yes,” she said, haltingly.
“There’s a ‘but’ in there.”
She lifted her head to find him watching her with those intense, intelligent eyes.
“I started off small time, you know? In a beach town doing weddings and races for charity and the like. Then my friend, Kate, met up with this guy, Alec Sawyer—.”
“The guitarist who was with Reeking Bliss?”
She nodded.
“I know him. Good guy. Great musician. He still sober?”
“Yes. Through him I met Asher and moved to L.A.. Asher helped me get set up.”
His expression turned stony.
Her brow furrowed, then she laughed and put up a hand. “No, no. Not like that. Asher and I are not…we weren’t together. He’s just a friend and colleague.”
His expression cleared at her explanation. “Oh. So where’s the problem? Independence, satisfying work—sounds rewarding.”
“Thanks. Yeah, it’s great, but,” she met his sympathetic eyes, “the job has swallowed up everything else. I have no time for my friends or family anymore, I rarely date. It kills me to say no to groups who are doing so much good in the world, you know? So I keep saying yes and I’ve become a victim of my own success,” she said, glumly.
“Ah. That I might know a little something about,” he said with a wry grin.
“Yeah?”
“Oh yeah. But my motivations were a lot less noble. I traded in everything—friends, and health, you name it, for my ego, legacy, artistic vision, whatever you call it. I thought I was the only one capable of eliciting a certain sound from a particular group and rarely turned down bands I wanted to produce. Work disconnected me from everything that mattered.” He looked pensive, as though he was remembering, then shook his head dismissively. “Not that things are that extreme in your case, of course.”
“No,” she said, softly, “I’m afraid that’s exactly where I’m headed.”
His measured gaze captured hers, empathy and something more in its depths, and she stared back, a heartbeat too long. Awareness coiled through Ava and left her tense, unnerved and intrigued by the intensity in his dark eyes.
• • •
They had just finished clearing the table when Ray made a sound from his bed near the couch. Nate went to check on him and Ava followed. “He’s okay. Asleep. Knocked out and snoring.”
She shifted, suddenly very aware of how alone they were in this quiet farmhouse. “So, I guess I should probably call a tow truck.”
“Garage’s closed by now.”
Of course it was. This day just kept getting better. How long would she be stuck out here in Podunkville? “Can we get the car fixed tomorrow?”
“Fixed? No. They don’t work on weekends around here and that could be a big job. But we can get it towed Monday. I’d say it’ll be ready Wednesday.”
She moaned. “Are there rental places?”
“I could drive you out—there might be one a few towns away, but Ray—”
“No, no. You can’t take me if Ray is … ” Ava trailed off. She couldn’t recall seeing any motels in walking distance, and with no shoes … “Would you mind putting me up for the night?”
“No, I’ve got plenty of room. I already asked Doc to let Marty—that’s the better of the two mechanics in town—know you’d need a tow and repairs. We’ll figure it out.”
Ava sat silently next to him. “I don’t know how you can ever forgive me,” she whispered.
“There’s nothing to forgive.”
She stared down at the dog, miserable. “But what if he gets worse? I heard you tell the vet you’d put him down.”
Nate rubbed his chin. “I don’t want him to suffer, but I don’t think it’ll come to that, and if it did, I don’t blame you.” Ava sighed, her eyes still glued to where Ray was curled up. Then Nate reached over and lifted her chin with one long finger. “Look at me.”
She searched his serious eyes.
“Ray doesn’t blame you and neither do I. It’s just one of those things.” He leaned closer, his mouth now but a few breaths away. “Let
it go, Ava.”
The low growl of his command made her stomach flip. Her gaze locked with his, the air suddenly shifting, becoming charged around them. God. It had been so long. So long since she’d connected with anyone in any way. So long since she’d been touched, kissed, desired. And judging by the longing suddenly sketched into the sharp planes of his face, he desired her too. His eyes were sharp, focused with an almost intimidating intensity. Maybe she could have this, with him, just once. She leaned forward, into the heat of him.
Nate’s head bent and he captured her lips. Her stomach clenched and the overwhelming ache of arousal swept through her.
Her lips met his again and again; she reached out, pushing at his chest until they backed against the couch. Ava pushed him down to sit, and then she was straddling him.
He thrust his tongue into her mouth, ravaged her, and she gasped. It was hot and hard and out of control. She urged him on, running her hands through his thick, soft hair, gripping the back of his head.
His mouth caught her moans, and those deft fingers found the button on her jeans and unzipped her. She rubbed herself against the thickness of his erection, trapped against his thigh, straining against his jeans. She struggled to release him from the confines of his pants, her mouth glued to his.
His free hand went under her shirt to her breast, freeing it through the fabric of her bra. He stripped her shirt off in one motion.
She retaliated, wrestling his off. She closed her eyes as his lips left hers to trail down her throat, to her collarbone, licking and sucking his way to the pebbled nipple. He sucked the peak into his mouth so hard it was almost painful. She moaned and locked his head to her with her arm.
His hands went to her hips to grind her harder against the hot strength of his arousal, his mouth still torturing her nipple.
His hand found its way inside her unzipped jeans and delved into her soaked cotton panties. One long finger stroked her seam and she pushed her hips mindlessly, bucking into his hand, frantic. He stroked her with expert fingers, round and round, his mouth moving back up to capture the panting gasping sounds she was making as she rocked on his hand.
